


One Hand in my Pocket

by BakerKeen



Series: Let Me Count the Ways [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: At the Cinema, Bored Sherlock, Hand Jobs, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, Sherlock Lost a Bet, The Great British Bake Off references, mission impossible references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2018-04-27 05:09:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5035048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerKeen/pseuds/BakerKeen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After losing a bet, Sherlock goes to the cinema with John. How John thinks this was wise is anyone's guess.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Hand in my Pocket

As they walked to the cinema, Sherlock was all popped collar, sharp cheekbones, and sharper eyes. John, for his part, had rarely seemed so smug. "No one _made_ you take the wager," John reminded him.

Sherlock sniffed. "Ian should have won. His showstopper cake was superb."

John laughed. "For God's sake, the man forgot to put sugar on his _iced buns_. You didn't honestly think he was going to win?"

They were nearing the cinema now, and Sherlock was growing impossibly more irritable. "His cake was objectively more show-stopping than Nadiya's. The judges just liked the sentiment that she was finally getting her own wedding cake. They just _liked_ her better."

"I think you just like Ian." 

Sherlock opened the door with a look of disdain. "Ian is _interesting_."

John rolled his eyes. "Eating roadkill does not make somebody _interesting_ , Sherlock." They approached the ticket booth. "We could watch _Macbeth_." A peace offering. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Shakespeare was an opportunistic hack."

John gaped at him with the kind of horror usually reserved for train wrecks or public defecation. "I'm sorry, what??!?"

Sherlock's voice positively dripped with disdain. "He was a drunken, philandering plagiarist who fooled everyone into thinking he was a genius. And even if I was compelled to torture myself with one of his idiotic plays, I certainly would not watch it at the cinema." He sniffed, removing his gloves and approaching the ticket counter with the air of resignation. "Two tickets to something with a lot of explosions, please," he said to the cashier, looking utterly bored.

John got them drinks and nibbles (popcorn for him, Raisinets for Sherlock) and they climbed to a row near the back. By the time the film started, the room was at about half capacity. _Not too bad_ , thought John. _Hopefully Sherlock can keep his snide comments to a whisper and not too many people will be bothered._

The film started and at first, Sherlock merely huffed his contempt and whispered complaints. ("How could they possibly be in Belarus when the cars are driving on the left side of the road?") John ignored him, aside from the occasional sidelong glance to his cross figure. Finally, Sherlock seemed to be unable to take it any longer. "There is no possible way for the motorcyclist to go flying like that, the vehicle wasn't moving anywhere near quickly enough!" He was murmuring, but his deep voice carried, and a couple in the row ahead of them turned around to glare.

John mouthed _sorry!_ to them, and raised the armrest between he and Sherlock. Scooting in close and pressing his lips to Sherlock's ear, he murmured pleasantly. "Shut the fuck up and let everyone enjoy the movie, yeah?"

Sherlock repressed a shiver as John's tongue skidded over his ear on the word _let_. John's don't-fuck-with-me voice was arousing enough without his tongue's help. He turned to catch John's lips with his own, and they kissed for a brief moment, but John pulled away and gave him a _not now_ glare when Sherlock tilted his head and started to open his mouth. He settled for resting a large palm on John's soft corduroy trousers instead. 

John had rested his elbow on the back of Sherlock's seat and was now threading his fingers through his curls, massaging his sensitive scalp. He often did this while they watch telly in the evenings, and it always confused Sherlock how touching his hair could be calming and arousing in equal measure. Sherlock repressed the urge to moan, settling instead for nudging John's fingers when his hair-twirling stalled. John smiled fondly, eyes still on the screen. 

Sherlock closed his eyes. John's fingers felt heavenly in his hair, and he could feel his cock thickening. Unexpected, but hardly unwelcome. A smirk ghosted across his face as he let his hand glide up John's leg to nudge against his bollocks. The fingers in his hair stilled and John arched an eyebrow at him. 

After rubbing along John's soft cock a few times, and feeling it starting to firm, Sherlock turned, draping one arm over the back of John's chair and leaning to whisper in John's ear. Quietly, this time. "Think anyone would notice if I sucked you off?" He licked up the edge of his ear, then rubbed over it with his bottom lip.

John shook with a silent laugh, but his cock got noticeably harder. "I do, yeah," he whispered back. 

Sherlock looked at the screen for a few moments, and synchronized a loud car crash with pulling down John's zipper. He slipped a hand inside and stroked him. "Think anyone would notice this?"

John smiled mischievously. "Probably not." Sherlock bit his earlobe and popped the button, giving him better access to John's now rather firm erection. He rested his face against John's and they both pretended to watch the screen as Sherlock rubbed his thumb over the slit, spreading precome over the head of John's silky cock. He stroked John lazily, finding a slow, steady rhythm and bringing John to full hardness.

Usually, John would be looking down, biting his lip and moaning wantonly as he watched Sherlock work his cock. He'd murmur encouragement and thrust up into Sherlock's hand and swear a bit as he got close. Arousing him without any visible feedback was equal parts disconcerting and hot as hell. He knew John had his body locked down and it gave him a heady sensation of control. 

Sherlock checked to see if they were being watched under the guise of leaning over to murmur in John's ear. "Two rows back, there is someone who suspects. She's not certain, though. Can't make anything out." He faced forward again, but felt John bollocks tighten.

Smirking, Sherlock flicked his wrist the way he knew John liked. His Adan's Apple bobbed audibly but he didn't move or make any noise. Hmm. Sherlock settled in to play, varying the pressure and speed of his strokes, paying intense but fleeting attention to his frenulum and corona and making sure everything stayed slick with pre-come.

Finally, John exhaled a ragged breath, and his eyes broke rank, darting over his shoulder for the briefest of moments to see if they'd been caught. The woman behind them seemed to have lost interest in them, thankfully. Sherlock watched the movie and smiled, seeing what was coming next as plainly as if it had been written on the screen. He made a ring with his thumb and first two fingers and began working the head of John's cock mercilessly. If he could just get it timed correctly ...

"Napkins," came Sherlock's whispered prompt when John's breathing became irregular. John grabbed some from the cup holder, and a second later a beautiful woman emerged the water and pulled off her top. Sherlock turned to watch and it was absolutely gorgeous. John's jaw was clamped down with the effort of silence, and his eyes rolled back in his head, but he maintained his military posture perfectly and not a sound escaped his lips as he spurted against the napkins. As Sherlock stroked him through it, he considered his and John's fondness for semipublic sex acts and chuckled quietly. 

After the film, John buried the sticky napkins in his half-empty popcorn bag and made Sherlock wash his hands. "You're a bad man," John accused lightly when they were on the street. 

Sherlock laughed. "You can't drag me to the cinema and then expect me to _behave_. Although I was just thinking that one of these days Lestrade's going to have to get us off."

John snickered. "That's what she said."

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "That's what who said? Donovan? Oh God, no, probably Anthea. What did she say, precisely?"

John smacked Sherlock's bum playfully. "Never mind that now. We need to get home and get you taken care of." He gave Sherlock a sultry look. "I've got plans I think you'll like."


End file.
